I have been unnaturally calm the last few days. I'm not sure what it seems like from the outside, but from from the inside looking in, it's a little unnerving. I've never really noticed it before, but when I'm stressed--when things are at a breaking point--I shed emotion in favor of hyper-rationalism. And avoidance, also. It's like I'm a robot. A robot that refuses to connect to the internet mainframe. Because the internet, despite existing and functioning for essentially the totality of my life, is still a variable bitch. Excuse my language.
Every Wednesday morning, in the place of our regularly scheduled morning meeting in the backyard, students meet in their homeroom classes for something the school calls "Caring Counts." Being an almost-middle school teacher with a supreme level of disgust for using baby language with my students (because they're babied enough as it is), we simply call it "Class Meeting." In this class meeting, we work on emotional intelligence: knowing and understanding how our emotions factor into the way that we relate and interact with others. Recently, the meeting centered around our "stress styles": how we behave when faced with a stressful situation. Most people adopt one of four styles: The Fighter (anger/confrontation), The Avoider (avoidance), The Victim (blame), or The Computer (unemotional reason). It is, of course, more complicated than that; people don't always fall into the same stress style every time, and sometimes they fall into more than one, at different stages. But if we keep it simple and say that each person has one particular style, then I'm a computer. Very much a computer.
I can thank my mother for this. In fact, I can cite numerous moments in my life when I had a problem, and her response was to offer me potential solutions. Except that I didn't want solutions; I wanted to be sad. But she's a practical woman to her core, and problem-solving is what she does best. A lot of the time, this is a deficiency on her (and my) part. But sometimes, it's practicality that's needed. When Katrina hit and the city evacuated, I was at school in Virginia. That semester, I was taking classes like Francophone Moroccan Literature and Special Collections and Copyright. They seemed pointless--purposeless and abstract--in the face of a very concrete and immediate disaster. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be with my family. But my mom wouldn't let me. I don't remember talking about how I felt with her--when I could get through on the phone, that is--I just remember her saying that I needed to stay in school. That I should visit a counselor and maybe drop a class to take it easy that semester. I dropped the class. But instead of confronting my survivor guilt with a counselor, I proceeded to bury my feelings, since they didn't seem to be doing me any practical good. As the behavior interventionist at our school says, "acorns and oaks." The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
This journey towards homeownership has been harder than I thought. Everyone told me it would be hard, and stressful, and they were right. As I've said before, I didn't realize how much so until my offer was accepted and the real work began. The purchase has never been a done deal, and I have spent the last seven weeks or so fluctuating between anger and sadness and worry and reason, all the while trying not to get too attached. Because you just never know. It is currently the day of, and not only do I not have any guarantee that this deal is going through, but I don't even know where I'm supposed to be to sign the papers in five hours. People keep telling me it's going to happen, and that everyone involved in the process wants it to happen as much as me, but I feel less sure. Uncertainty isn't my favorite, and so I've spent the last three days unnaturally calm, trying to ignore the burden on my shoulders. Because I'm afraid to feel either happy or cynical, nervous that either one would somehow cause the Universe to dismantle the deal.
I'm afraid that despite delivering weekly lessons, I'm not the best teacher of emotional intelligence. In fact, I could use quite a bit of EI instruction myself. Over the course of my life--a very cushy and sheltered life compared to most people in this world, I recognize--I have fallen into the "knock on wood" trap. When faced with an uncertain future, if I even think that I'll get what I want, I knock the hell out of a nearby piece of lumber. I refuse to assume that things will go my way. Because every time I assume that they will, they don't. It's like I feel the need to constantly prepare myself for disappointment or otherwise pretend that nothing's happening at all. I'm pretty sure this is unhealthy.
Recently, as I was mindlessly perusing the news feed of my Facebook account instead of sleeping off the cold I caught this week, I ran across a TED article about languages and how they affect the way we think and behave. According to the article, there is no tense distinction between past, present, and future in languages like Chinese. As a result, speakers of the asian language have a tendency to see the future as a more immediate entity. On the other hand, speakers of tensed languages, like English, see the future as a more distant concept. The result is that Chinese speakers are better savers; English speakers tend to function on the premise of "I've got time." I wish I spoke Chinese; not only because it would massively increase my employment options, but because I think it would help me worry less. I tend to focus very little emotional energy into the present moment and instead ruminate and worry a great deal about the far-off future and the moments leading up to it. I suppose it's not surprising that meditation and mindfulness are often associated with Buddhism, a religion that has shaped Chinese culture for the last two millennia. Catholics have a fair amount of history with meditation as a Church, but it's usually left to the people crazy enough to cloister themselves. The rest of us worry worry worry, feel guilt guilt guilt. In Chinese Buddhism, lay people's meditation practices function much like those of Buddhist monks. Like I said, I could learn something from the Chinese.
When the construction loan fell through a couple of weeks ago and we reverted to conventional, my parents offered me a personal loan to cover the expenses associated with repairs. This is no chump change. I had to sign a paper for IRS purposes to demonstrate my understanding that I would be paying interest on this loan, and that the totality of the loan would be repaid in three years. Three years. The loan is approximately half of my yearly income before taxes, and I don't know how I'm going to come up with that much money in three years. I'm already struggling with the idea of owing a bank for the next thirty years of my life (since I haven't even lived thirty years yet). Owing more money more immediately just makes things that much more inconceivable. I know that my parents would extend the loan as needed, but still. I worry worry worry, and then, realizing that there's nothing I can do about it right now, I revert to calm. I ignore what I can't do anything about. Again, I'm pretty sure this is unhealthy.
So, pray for me today, and for the next thirty years. And if you know of any good, well-paid summer jobs or meditation classes, let me know. I'm gonna need one of each.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Monday, October 27, 2014
Don't hold your breath. That's the saying, right? For example, if a woman said, "I'm going to marry a hot, rich, well-educated guy with a kind heart," then my friend Mick Stein would say "Don't hold your breath." Actually, he would laugh and say, "Don't hold your f***ing breath." And then go on and on about how a guy like that doesn't exist. "You want someone nice?" he likes to say. "Marry a fat guy."
Well, if the saying's right, then I've been vacillating between suffocation and oxygen highs the last two months as I've meandered and stressed my way through this house purchase. The closing is scheduled for this Friday. But there's no guarantee that it'll actually happen. I keep getting different stories, and I don't trust any of them. Can I buy? Can't I buy? No one seems to know.
Oh yes, everything is on track; don't you worry.
I'm afraid we don't have enough time to do a construction loan. We'll have to go conventional.
Everything looks great on the conventional loan. Should be a simple process.
Appraiser asked about structural concerns. Not sure the conventional loan will do. Might have to go construction and extend the closing date.
Looks like everything will be okay. We'll forward you the appraisal as soon as we get it.
I have literally spent the beginning of almost every week this month worried about the house, and the rest of the week trying to calm myself down. If my blood pressure doesn't kill me before I get to the end of all of this, I might end up with a house. But I might not. I just really can't tell.
Just try not to worry about it this weekend. I'll talk to the loan officer Monday.
That's what my realtor told me on Saturday...right after I lost in the finals of my weekly volleyball tournament (great timing). And I spent the weekend trying hard not to worry about it, as per her suggestion. I binged on Netflix. I played almost seven hours of volleyball. I cantored at my church. I went to a Saints game. I ate almost a quart of ice cream. I might have even managed to get hit on by a World War II vet at church on Sunday.
Man: You know what we used to call beautiful girls back in the day?
Me: What's that?
Man: McIlhenny. Like where they make Tabasco sauce. You know why? One word.
Me: What's that?
Man: Hot.
[pause]
Man: You married?
Me: Nope.
Man: Me neither. ...You know, old men marry young women sometimes. But it never lasts. Maybe six months.
Me: You're probably right.
Man: I don't think I'll do that.
Me: That's probably a wise decision.
But despite my distracting weekend, I still spent today biting my nails and checking my email every hour to see if the appraisal had come through. To see if I was going to buy a house, after all.
People keep telling me not to worry. People keep trying to reassure me. I'm sure it'll work out. Surely you're farther along in your loan than a whole new buyer would be. But the truth is, I don't know whether or not I should worry. I don't know if reassurance is a good idea. If I get to Saturday, and I haven't bought this house, I feel like I should be preparing for disappointment now. What was worse as a kid: thinking you may or may not get a Nintendo for Christmas, or being told you'll probably get one and then finding Yahtzee under the tree?
[For the record, I love a good game of Yahtzee. But it wasn't the expectation; that's my point.]
I suppose until my signature is on the purchase papers and the check has been cut, I've just got to brace myself for whatever complications may arise. I've got to prepare myself for the worst and hope for the best. I've got to hatch my eggs before I count them. I've got to waste space with overused English idioms in an attempt to calm myself.
It ain't over until midnight on Saturday. I'll let you know if I make it.
Well, if the saying's right, then I've been vacillating between suffocation and oxygen highs the last two months as I've meandered and stressed my way through this house purchase. The closing is scheduled for this Friday. But there's no guarantee that it'll actually happen. I keep getting different stories, and I don't trust any of them. Can I buy? Can't I buy? No one seems to know.
Oh yes, everything is on track; don't you worry.
I'm afraid we don't have enough time to do a construction loan. We'll have to go conventional.
Everything looks great on the conventional loan. Should be a simple process.
Appraiser asked about structural concerns. Not sure the conventional loan will do. Might have to go construction and extend the closing date.
Looks like everything will be okay. We'll forward you the appraisal as soon as we get it.
I have literally spent the beginning of almost every week this month worried about the house, and the rest of the week trying to calm myself down. If my blood pressure doesn't kill me before I get to the end of all of this, I might end up with a house. But I might not. I just really can't tell.
Just try not to worry about it this weekend. I'll talk to the loan officer Monday.
That's what my realtor told me on Saturday...right after I lost in the finals of my weekly volleyball tournament (great timing). And I spent the weekend trying hard not to worry about it, as per her suggestion. I binged on Netflix. I played almost seven hours of volleyball. I cantored at my church. I went to a Saints game. I ate almost a quart of ice cream. I might have even managed to get hit on by a World War II vet at church on Sunday.
Man: You know what we used to call beautiful girls back in the day?
Me: What's that?
Man: McIlhenny. Like where they make Tabasco sauce. You know why? One word.
Me: What's that?
Man: Hot.
[pause]
Man: You married?
Me: Nope.
Man: Me neither. ...You know, old men marry young women sometimes. But it never lasts. Maybe six months.
Me: You're probably right.
Man: I don't think I'll do that.
Me: That's probably a wise decision.
But despite my distracting weekend, I still spent today biting my nails and checking my email every hour to see if the appraisal had come through. To see if I was going to buy a house, after all.
People keep telling me not to worry. People keep trying to reassure me. I'm sure it'll work out. Surely you're farther along in your loan than a whole new buyer would be. But the truth is, I don't know whether or not I should worry. I don't know if reassurance is a good idea. If I get to Saturday, and I haven't bought this house, I feel like I should be preparing for disappointment now. What was worse as a kid: thinking you may or may not get a Nintendo for Christmas, or being told you'll probably get one and then finding Yahtzee under the tree?
[For the record, I love a good game of Yahtzee. But it wasn't the expectation; that's my point.]
I suppose until my signature is on the purchase papers and the check has been cut, I've just got to brace myself for whatever complications may arise. I've got to prepare myself for the worst and hope for the best. I've got to hatch my eggs before I count them. I've got to waste space with overused English idioms in an attempt to calm myself.
It ain't over until midnight on Saturday. I'll let you know if I make it.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over (And Maybe Not Even Then)
My life has been a bit of a roller coaster these days, and so I have decided to name it. I'm thinking "Double or Nothing," a tribute to the two-family home I may or may not purchase in less than ten days. I'm open to suggestions, though, particularly because the only roller coaster I know is called "The Ladybug." It's also the only roller coaster I can stomach. It's also a child's roller coaster. I know, I should stop while I'm ahead.
I had a fantastic weekend, which I'm starting to become wary of. Last time I had a great weekend, I came home to a room eviction, three nights on the couch, and a few additional nights' worth of inhaled paint fumes. This time around, I got a text message from my loan officer telling me that they can't process my renovation loan before my closing date. But I'll get to that later.
Atlanta was the weekend's destination. I had four days off, thanks to Fall Break, and so I decided to spend it with my brother, his wife, and their daughter. Only, their second child arrived two days before I did, so make that brother, his wife, and their two daughters.
I wasn't sure what to feel upon meeting my second niece for the first time. Meeting Paige (niece #1) was more emotional than I'd expected. I fell in love instantly and may or may not have shed a few happy tears on the flight home. She was so little, so sweet, so warm. I remember thinking to myself as I held her, "Who knew you could fall in love with a stranger so quickly?"
Meeting Alice (niece #2) was less emotional than I expected, probably because I didn't get the same quiet bonding time with her. Instead, I spent the better part of the weekend wrangling Paige to give her parents time with the baby or with their pillows. Of course, the shrill shrieks that Alice regularly emits didn't help, either. Meanwhile, Paige loves to stare at the baby, point at her, and kiss the crown of her head. "Bobby," she says, trying to say baby. "Ah-iss," she says, trying to say Alice. Couldn't get the kid to remember or pronounce my name at any point during my stay, but she got her sister's name almost immediately. Skewed priorities, obviously. We'll have to fix that.
Sweet, wonderful Paige. I just love her. She's a rough and tumble kind of kid that dresses almost exclusively in adorable, girly clothing. She is best behaved when there is food to eat or people to watch. She sways when music comes on, and she freaks out when one or both of her parents walks in the door after being away for any period of time. Like a happy freak out. She smiles, shrieks, and throws her hands up in the air. Usually it's followed by running to the person. She also does this strange shuddering thing when she's really happy; we don't know what that's about (weirdo). She's my kinda girl.
One of the greatest parts of being an aunt (and I imagine, of being a parent) is slowly seeing a child's personality take shape. Paige is getting there. She's got her quirks and her preferences, and she'll only grow into those more. Alice is pretty different from Paige already: hair on her head, crying all the time, and nursing with sluggish indifference. I look forward to seeing who they both become.
I also got to meet up with a friend from college while I was in Atlanta. He recently moved there for work, and when I found out, I got really excited. There was a semester in undergrad, after 6 weeks together in Morocco, where we went out to lunch 2-3x per week after a French class and talked until our next class. Having dinner was like stepping back into that moment, only this time we were talking about the complications of adult life: dating, work, home purchases, etc.
I took an overnight bus on the way to Atlanta, but I drove back with my sister Abby. Sure, I didn't make the right turn at one point, and we spent an extra hour or two weaving through rural Georgia roads, but hey, we made it home. And we got to listen to country music, to laugh so hard we almost peed our pants, and to make plans for what we'd do if the car broke down on one of these roads and someone came out of the nearby woods. There was a lot of talk about horror movies and crime shows, which I had to put a stop to when it got dark. (A girl's gotta sleep.)
The text message about the renovation loan problem came the morning after I returned. It read:
"Rebekah, we can't close by Oct. 31. My underwriter's can't do it that soon on a renovation loan. At this point we need an extension to the end of Nov or we need to do a regular conventional loan and you can do an equity loan for the repairs. I'm sorry for the confusion. I kept thinking we would have time. I think we should do the regular loan. I am going into an appt for 9am. Will call you after that."
As you can imagine, my stomach bottomed out. We've spent the last 7-8 weeks working on this house, and it felt like a rug was being pulled out from under me. Was the house deal really going to fall apart at the last minute? And not enough time? We had SO MUCH TIME. It made me angry. What was I paying these people for, if not to keep us on a timeline? If not to make sure that everything got done? I yelled. I vented to my parents. I scramble-scramble-scrambled to find a way to make it work.
And I did.
And then there was more confusion and uncertainty. And then we got it cleared up. And then more confusion and scrambling. And clarity. And confusion and clarity.
I'm beginning to realize that buying a house is like teaching for the first time. Everyone tells you that it's going to be hyper-stressful, but you don't really understand just how much it sucks until you do it. I shared my frustrations about this with my dad, who responded, "Wait until you're in the midst of renovations. Then you'll really be stressed and frustrated." Gee, thanks, dad. Way to make your daughter feel better.
Of course, I shouldn't complain about my parents. They were part of my scramble-scramble-scramble, and it is because of their help that this house will go to closing, if it does. As if I weren't already terribly indebted to them for everything they've done for me throughout my life, I find myself even more grateful for them than I've ever been.
Today, I checked my personal email and cell phone more than I have ever done during a school day ever. I am ethically opposed to doing so while I'm teaching (since I'm supposed to be teaching), but today, all of that had to go to hell. I had to sign and scan papers. I had to forward insurance quotes. I had to sign and scan more papers. At this point, success seems to be coming down to whether or not paper work can get done in time, and so I can't wait until 5pm to respond like I usually do. Luckily, I'm like two weeks ahead of my yearly plan, so the kids are gonna be alright. Plus, they were working on metamorphosis art today. They don't really need me for that, right? (Although I did get observed today, so I had to be a little more vigilant during that twenty minute span.)
The closing is set for next Friday. I refuse to assume that I'll be signing papers and handing over a check that day. This process has been full of everything but guarantees. Every time I think we've crossed our t's, they unravel. Every time I think things are going to get easier, they get harder. If it doesn't work out, I'll be devastated. If it does work out, I'll probably cry anyway. But I can't bring myself to jinx it.
It seems fitting somehow that my closing is set for Halloween. To make a bad pun, only time will tell if that day brings a trick...or a very-expensive and stress-inducing treat. Either way, throw out some prayers for me over the next ten days (and the months that follow). I'm gonna need 'em.
I had a fantastic weekend, which I'm starting to become wary of. Last time I had a great weekend, I came home to a room eviction, three nights on the couch, and a few additional nights' worth of inhaled paint fumes. This time around, I got a text message from my loan officer telling me that they can't process my renovation loan before my closing date. But I'll get to that later.
Atlanta was the weekend's destination. I had four days off, thanks to Fall Break, and so I decided to spend it with my brother, his wife, and their daughter. Only, their second child arrived two days before I did, so make that brother, his wife, and their two daughters.
I wasn't sure what to feel upon meeting my second niece for the first time. Meeting Paige (niece #1) was more emotional than I'd expected. I fell in love instantly and may or may not have shed a few happy tears on the flight home. She was so little, so sweet, so warm. I remember thinking to myself as I held her, "Who knew you could fall in love with a stranger so quickly?"
Meeting Alice (niece #2) was less emotional than I expected, probably because I didn't get the same quiet bonding time with her. Instead, I spent the better part of the weekend wrangling Paige to give her parents time with the baby or with their pillows. Of course, the shrill shrieks that Alice regularly emits didn't help, either. Meanwhile, Paige loves to stare at the baby, point at her, and kiss the crown of her head. "Bobby," she says, trying to say baby. "Ah-iss," she says, trying to say Alice. Couldn't get the kid to remember or pronounce my name at any point during my stay, but she got her sister's name almost immediately. Skewed priorities, obviously. We'll have to fix that.
Sweet, wonderful Paige. I just love her. She's a rough and tumble kind of kid that dresses almost exclusively in adorable, girly clothing. She is best behaved when there is food to eat or people to watch. She sways when music comes on, and she freaks out when one or both of her parents walks in the door after being away for any period of time. Like a happy freak out. She smiles, shrieks, and throws her hands up in the air. Usually it's followed by running to the person. She also does this strange shuddering thing when she's really happy; we don't know what that's about (weirdo). She's my kinda girl.
One of the greatest parts of being an aunt (and I imagine, of being a parent) is slowly seeing a child's personality take shape. Paige is getting there. She's got her quirks and her preferences, and she'll only grow into those more. Alice is pretty different from Paige already: hair on her head, crying all the time, and nursing with sluggish indifference. I look forward to seeing who they both become.
I also got to meet up with a friend from college while I was in Atlanta. He recently moved there for work, and when I found out, I got really excited. There was a semester in undergrad, after 6 weeks together in Morocco, where we went out to lunch 2-3x per week after a French class and talked until our next class. Having dinner was like stepping back into that moment, only this time we were talking about the complications of adult life: dating, work, home purchases, etc.
I took an overnight bus on the way to Atlanta, but I drove back with my sister Abby. Sure, I didn't make the right turn at one point, and we spent an extra hour or two weaving through rural Georgia roads, but hey, we made it home. And we got to listen to country music, to laugh so hard we almost peed our pants, and to make plans for what we'd do if the car broke down on one of these roads and someone came out of the nearby woods. There was a lot of talk about horror movies and crime shows, which I had to put a stop to when it got dark. (A girl's gotta sleep.)
The text message about the renovation loan problem came the morning after I returned. It read:
"Rebekah, we can't close by Oct. 31. My underwriter's can't do it that soon on a renovation loan. At this point we need an extension to the end of Nov or we need to do a regular conventional loan and you can do an equity loan for the repairs. I'm sorry for the confusion. I kept thinking we would have time. I think we should do the regular loan. I am going into an appt for 9am. Will call you after that."
As you can imagine, my stomach bottomed out. We've spent the last 7-8 weeks working on this house, and it felt like a rug was being pulled out from under me. Was the house deal really going to fall apart at the last minute? And not enough time? We had SO MUCH TIME. It made me angry. What was I paying these people for, if not to keep us on a timeline? If not to make sure that everything got done? I yelled. I vented to my parents. I scramble-scramble-scrambled to find a way to make it work.
And I did.
And then there was more confusion and uncertainty. And then we got it cleared up. And then more confusion and scrambling. And clarity. And confusion and clarity.
I'm beginning to realize that buying a house is like teaching for the first time. Everyone tells you that it's going to be hyper-stressful, but you don't really understand just how much it sucks until you do it. I shared my frustrations about this with my dad, who responded, "Wait until you're in the midst of renovations. Then you'll really be stressed and frustrated." Gee, thanks, dad. Way to make your daughter feel better.
Of course, I shouldn't complain about my parents. They were part of my scramble-scramble-scramble, and it is because of their help that this house will go to closing, if it does. As if I weren't already terribly indebted to them for everything they've done for me throughout my life, I find myself even more grateful for them than I've ever been.
Today, I checked my personal email and cell phone more than I have ever done during a school day ever. I am ethically opposed to doing so while I'm teaching (since I'm supposed to be teaching), but today, all of that had to go to hell. I had to sign and scan papers. I had to forward insurance quotes. I had to sign and scan more papers. At this point, success seems to be coming down to whether or not paper work can get done in time, and so I can't wait until 5pm to respond like I usually do. Luckily, I'm like two weeks ahead of my yearly plan, so the kids are gonna be alright. Plus, they were working on metamorphosis art today. They don't really need me for that, right? (Although I did get observed today, so I had to be a little more vigilant during that twenty minute span.)
The closing is set for next Friday. I refuse to assume that I'll be signing papers and handing over a check that day. This process has been full of everything but guarantees. Every time I think we've crossed our t's, they unravel. Every time I think things are going to get easier, they get harder. If it doesn't work out, I'll be devastated. If it does work out, I'll probably cry anyway. But I can't bring myself to jinx it.
It seems fitting somehow that my closing is set for Halloween. To make a bad pun, only time will tell if that day brings a trick...or a very-expensive and stress-inducing treat. Either way, throw out some prayers for me over the next ten days (and the months that follow). I'm gonna need 'em.
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| Sisters Meeting For the First Time |
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| Paige Having a Ball with A Balloon |
Thursday, October 16, 2014
What's His Age Again?
I don't know when coincidence became a pattern, but I realized recently that I've gotten involved with a suspicious number of 23 year old men during my time as an adult.
I suppose that was fine when I was 23. Or 25. But now 23 means they were born in the 90s. That they were still in high school when I started teaching. That they were in eighth grade when I went to college. That they were barely in elementary school when I went to middle school. That they weren't even conceived when the Berlin Wall fell. I mean, I don't remember it, but damn, at least I was alive. I was probably bingeing on Sesame Street when it happened. (Actually, I looked it up. It was a Thursday. I went to school that day. I went to school before they were even born.)
It's probably actually not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. Plenty of people end up with significant others more than 6 years their senior or junior. The difference, of course, is that right now six years puts us at opposite ends of our twenties, a decade that spans a vast spectrum of life choices and decisions. While I am in my seventh year of my career and buying a house, many twenty-three year old men are still deciding whether or not it's okay to go back and party at their old frat when they visit. And while it is in fact perfectly legitimate for a 23 year old to party with buddies who are still in college, it's pretty weird for a 28 year old to do that. I can imagine the conversation:
TwentyThree: Hey, I'm going to visit college friends this weekend. Wanna come?
Me: Sure. What do you have planned?
TwentyThree: My frat is having a party, so probably a lot of beer pong.
Me: Isn't that game pretty unsanitary? I mean, people vomit on the same floor the ball bounces on when you miss.
TwentyThree: ...
My sister's best friend is turning 21 this Sunday in Atlanta and invited me to celebrate when I shared that I'd be there this weekend. "You're more than welcome to join us, but just so you know, it'll be an apartment party and then a crappy college bar." I took a moment to imagine myself in a college apartment, surrounded by 21 year olds, and I just couldn't. Those were good times, but I'm over it.
This past weekend, I was hanging out at Oktoberfest in Kenner, and a volleyball friend of mine asked me about the guy from Saturday night in Florida. "He's 23," I said, assuming that's all that needed to be said. My friend seemed unfazed: "Some guys were 23 when they were 18. Some guys are still 18 when they turn 23." He then proceeded to share with me about the only two guys he knows that are single, one of whom was sitting right next to him (and probably overhearing our conversation). A guy that I later found out is...23.
I know, it's a little scary.
This realization of my unconscious affinity for 23 year olds has made me a little nervous about guys that I meet or run into. On the way out of work the other day, I was trying to cross the street as a car was pulling out into traffic and a bike was riding up. The guy on the bike saw me, smiled, and then slowed down. "It's dangerous trying to cross," he said. "It's like playing frogger." He then smiled at me again before speeding back up. I think that guy was hitting on me, I said to myself. ...I bet he's 23. And then I got in my car and laughed.
Me: I'm terrible at telling how old people are. I swear to God, I thought that last 23 year old I kissed was 30.
Friend: (laughs) What are you going to do? Card every guy you meet?
Me: ...
I just might have to.
I suppose that was fine when I was 23. Or 25. But now 23 means they were born in the 90s. That they were still in high school when I started teaching. That they were in eighth grade when I went to college. That they were barely in elementary school when I went to middle school. That they weren't even conceived when the Berlin Wall fell. I mean, I don't remember it, but damn, at least I was alive. I was probably bingeing on Sesame Street when it happened. (Actually, I looked it up. It was a Thursday. I went to school that day. I went to school before they were even born.)
It's probably actually not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. Plenty of people end up with significant others more than 6 years their senior or junior. The difference, of course, is that right now six years puts us at opposite ends of our twenties, a decade that spans a vast spectrum of life choices and decisions. While I am in my seventh year of my career and buying a house, many twenty-three year old men are still deciding whether or not it's okay to go back and party at their old frat when they visit. And while it is in fact perfectly legitimate for a 23 year old to party with buddies who are still in college, it's pretty weird for a 28 year old to do that. I can imagine the conversation:
TwentyThree: Hey, I'm going to visit college friends this weekend. Wanna come?
Me: Sure. What do you have planned?
TwentyThree: My frat is having a party, so probably a lot of beer pong.
Me: Isn't that game pretty unsanitary? I mean, people vomit on the same floor the ball bounces on when you miss.
TwentyThree: ...
My sister's best friend is turning 21 this Sunday in Atlanta and invited me to celebrate when I shared that I'd be there this weekend. "You're more than welcome to join us, but just so you know, it'll be an apartment party and then a crappy college bar." I took a moment to imagine myself in a college apartment, surrounded by 21 year olds, and I just couldn't. Those were good times, but I'm over it.
This past weekend, I was hanging out at Oktoberfest in Kenner, and a volleyball friend of mine asked me about the guy from Saturday night in Florida. "He's 23," I said, assuming that's all that needed to be said. My friend seemed unfazed: "Some guys were 23 when they were 18. Some guys are still 18 when they turn 23." He then proceeded to share with me about the only two guys he knows that are single, one of whom was sitting right next to him (and probably overhearing our conversation). A guy that I later found out is...23.
I know, it's a little scary.
This realization of my unconscious affinity for 23 year olds has made me a little nervous about guys that I meet or run into. On the way out of work the other day, I was trying to cross the street as a car was pulling out into traffic and a bike was riding up. The guy on the bike saw me, smiled, and then slowed down. "It's dangerous trying to cross," he said. "It's like playing frogger." He then smiled at me again before speeding back up. I think that guy was hitting on me, I said to myself. ...I bet he's 23. And then I got in my car and laughed.
Me: I'm terrible at telling how old people are. I swear to God, I thought that last 23 year old I kissed was 30.
Friend: (laughs) What are you going to do? Card every guy you meet?
Me: ...
I just might have to.
 |
| Call me Mrs Robinson. |
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Spin Stir
There is a significant chunk of my life that I spend completely unworried about my relationship status, and for that I am grateful. By unfriending people who viciously inflict virtual PDA on me via Facebook, and avoiding all contact with social media on February 14th, I often manage to forget that I am one of the few single people I know my age. By focusing on all the perks of being unattached, I regularly forget that I don't really want to be single at all.
I am good at a lot of things. In fact, I would venture to say that I have a wide variety of talents. Give me a skill and I'll master it. Give me a challenge and I'll meet it. I am a strong, happy, and confident individual, capable of so much.
But all of that changes when relationships come into play.
It has been a long time since I've gotten to a third date, and a longer time still since I've made it past the three month mark. The last time I was in a relationship that lasted more than a year--or better yet, the only time I have ever dated someone for that long--was seven years ago. I was twenty-one, and it was a dysfunctional relationship. Or at least that's what counseling professionals have told me.
Being perpetually single is like being perpetually unemployed. Sure, you may start out calling it "fun-employment" and unabashedly rubbing your carefree lifestyle in people's faces, but eventually, the time gets past you, and by the time you realize you need rent money and health insurance, you can't seem to get anyone to call you back.
Every new single man I have met in the last month has been at least five years younger than me. Any single man that has shown interest in me in the last year has made no attempt at pursuit or has flat-out told me he's just playing the field. One recommended that I get knocked up so that I could trap a husband.
"I think I'd rather be chosen," I replied.
I am fully aware that I am the common denominator here. I am aware that this more than likely has something to do with me and the way that I interact with men. But in all honesty, I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing wrong. Dating is like chess to me. I know some of the rules and none of the strategy. When I think I'm doing the right thing, I'm actually walking right into check-mate. I have always preferred checkers, but it's the unhitched version of chess. Great for visual pattern recognition (ie. eye candy), terrible for extended interest.
My family has taken different approaches to my apparent spinsterhood. My parents and siblings pretend like they don't notice. My cousins ask casually if I'm seeing anyone at family events. My aunts try to set me up on dates with doctors fifteen years my senior. They all do it with a sincere and genuine desire for my happiness. But none of it makes me happy.
And so, I begin to wonder if maybe I shouldn't start making back up plans. You know, a plan B in case I never end up getting married and having kids. I don't know exactly what that would be. Being childless would certainly benefit my bank account; maybe I could travel. My Uncle Bubber never got married or had kids, and he had a limo and a house in Puerto Rico. Then again, my Uncle Bubber was not a school teacher. I don't foresee a limo in my future, and I don't really want one (they get terrible gas mileage). When I was in high school, I thought about joining the church and being a nun. Of course, I realized pretty quickly that it wasn't for me; it's not what I wanted. I don't know if they'd look kindly upon making out on Florida dance floors, either. Maybe I just need to start taking quilting classes and buying government bonds and investing in cats.
I don't bring God into the conversation very often (not as much as I probably should), but I do sincerely believe that He has a plan for me. I do believe that at some point in my life, all of this will make more sense. I will look back on these years and see the context that frames my frustrations. What I do not know is how long it will take before the picture becomes clear. I do not know if that picture will look anything like what I'm hoping for.
I have seen a lot of Hallmark movies about confident and talented women that just can't get it right with men. I know that I am a walking stereotype. But Hallmark is not real life. Happy endings aren't guaranteed.
When I was in college, I took a class on Surrealist literature to meet a French lit requirement. My professor was a jerk, and for the first two months of the class, I was lost. The stories didn't make sense. Despite a fairly good grasp of the language, I had no idea what was going on. It wasn't until the end of the semester that it started to click, or more accurately, that I finally came to peace with the incoherency that is the genre.
They say that truth is stranger than fiction, but it seems to me that strangeness has nothing to do with it. Truth is messier than fiction. Its symbolism is less obvious. Its plot doesn't follow conflict-climax-denouement every time the way it should. Instead, we are left to sift through the mess, to try to make sense where nonsense may reign, to seek out peace in moments of sharded satisfaction.
Like JFK did in 1962, I will seek peace with patience. I will wait to see what comes. I will quietly guard hope. And in the meantime, I will continue to enjoy this adventure and all the surprises that come with it.
What is it those pesky kids say nowadays? You only live once?
SWF seeks SM for late-night conversations, tennis ball juggling, and jaunts on the beach. Must have ambitions, enjoy sports, and be tolerant of bad puns. Muscles a plus. Smokers need not apply.
I am good at a lot of things. In fact, I would venture to say that I have a wide variety of talents. Give me a skill and I'll master it. Give me a challenge and I'll meet it. I am a strong, happy, and confident individual, capable of so much.
But all of that changes when relationships come into play.
It has been a long time since I've gotten to a third date, and a longer time still since I've made it past the three month mark. The last time I was in a relationship that lasted more than a year--or better yet, the only time I have ever dated someone for that long--was seven years ago. I was twenty-one, and it was a dysfunctional relationship. Or at least that's what counseling professionals have told me.
Being perpetually single is like being perpetually unemployed. Sure, you may start out calling it "fun-employment" and unabashedly rubbing your carefree lifestyle in people's faces, but eventually, the time gets past you, and by the time you realize you need rent money and health insurance, you can't seem to get anyone to call you back.
Every new single man I have met in the last month has been at least five years younger than me. Any single man that has shown interest in me in the last year has made no attempt at pursuit or has flat-out told me he's just playing the field. One recommended that I get knocked up so that I could trap a husband.
"I think I'd rather be chosen," I replied.
I am fully aware that I am the common denominator here. I am aware that this more than likely has something to do with me and the way that I interact with men. But in all honesty, I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing wrong. Dating is like chess to me. I know some of the rules and none of the strategy. When I think I'm doing the right thing, I'm actually walking right into check-mate. I have always preferred checkers, but it's the unhitched version of chess. Great for visual pattern recognition (ie. eye candy), terrible for extended interest.
My family has taken different approaches to my apparent spinsterhood. My parents and siblings pretend like they don't notice. My cousins ask casually if I'm seeing anyone at family events. My aunts try to set me up on dates with doctors fifteen years my senior. They all do it with a sincere and genuine desire for my happiness. But none of it makes me happy.
And so, I begin to wonder if maybe I shouldn't start making back up plans. You know, a plan B in case I never end up getting married and having kids. I don't know exactly what that would be. Being childless would certainly benefit my bank account; maybe I could travel. My Uncle Bubber never got married or had kids, and he had a limo and a house in Puerto Rico. Then again, my Uncle Bubber was not a school teacher. I don't foresee a limo in my future, and I don't really want one (they get terrible gas mileage). When I was in high school, I thought about joining the church and being a nun. Of course, I realized pretty quickly that it wasn't for me; it's not what I wanted. I don't know if they'd look kindly upon making out on Florida dance floors, either. Maybe I just need to start taking quilting classes and buying government bonds and investing in cats.
I don't bring God into the conversation very often (not as much as I probably should), but I do sincerely believe that He has a plan for me. I do believe that at some point in my life, all of this will make more sense. I will look back on these years and see the context that frames my frustrations. What I do not know is how long it will take before the picture becomes clear. I do not know if that picture will look anything like what I'm hoping for.
I have seen a lot of Hallmark movies about confident and talented women that just can't get it right with men. I know that I am a walking stereotype. But Hallmark is not real life. Happy endings aren't guaranteed.
When I was in college, I took a class on Surrealist literature to meet a French lit requirement. My professor was a jerk, and for the first two months of the class, I was lost. The stories didn't make sense. Despite a fairly good grasp of the language, I had no idea what was going on. It wasn't until the end of the semester that it started to click, or more accurately, that I finally came to peace with the incoherency that is the genre.
They say that truth is stranger than fiction, but it seems to me that strangeness has nothing to do with it. Truth is messier than fiction. Its symbolism is less obvious. Its plot doesn't follow conflict-climax-denouement every time the way it should. Instead, we are left to sift through the mess, to try to make sense where nonsense may reign, to seek out peace in moments of sharded satisfaction.
Like JFK did in 1962, I will seek peace with patience. I will wait to see what comes. I will quietly guard hope. And in the meantime, I will continue to enjoy this adventure and all the surprises that come with it.
What is it those pesky kids say nowadays? You only live once?
SWF seeks SM for late-night conversations, tennis ball juggling, and jaunts on the beach. Must have ambitions, enjoy sports, and be tolerant of bad puns. Muscles a plus. Smokers need not apply.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Gelato, Get In My Belly!
I made it through the week. Every day felt like Monday, and there was a lot of crying (which is pretty abnormal for me...unless someone is dying in a movie, then I'm weeping), but I made it. And to celebrate, I stopped by the grocery store last night on my way home and picked up a pint of Talenti Mediterranean Mint gelato. In other words, I purchased 800 calories of better-than-ice-cream and then ate it, along with a few pizza slices, in front of my Netflix-connected television.
In 2008, I participated in a teacher development program called SMILE through Tulane University. We took multiple weeks of math and science related classes at the University, and then we went on a couple of field trips throughout the year. While the classes were fairly engaging and informative (though poorly differentiated), the field trips were mostly a waste of time. I only went to the first one, at the end of the first quarter, and I spent all of my down time grading quarterlies. I graded in Subway. I graded in my hotel room. I graded on the bus. I spent most of the remainder of my non-grading time wishing I was grading tests or relaxing at home instead of walking around a large science complex on the Northshore that was way too complicated to have anything to do with my students. Keep in mind, I also had the added stress of being the one-eyed king of the classroom (read: first year of teaching), and of having recently suffered a week-long evacuation for Hurricane Gustav (which I also spent grading and wishing I was home).
A few months later, there was a second field trip for the program. I begrudgingly made plans to go and procured a substitute for the occasion, but I ended up opting out for health reasons. Well, I thought they were health reasons. I mean, I felt like I was coming down with something. But the morning of, I awoke feeling as good as new, and instead, passed the entire day drinking soda, devouring delivery pizza, and finishing off a half-gallon of ice cream and the entire first two seasons of Chuck on DVD. My mom called at one point to see how I was doing, and I replied excitedly, "Why did no one tell me playing hooky was so much fun?"
Forget fried chicken. Pizza, ice cream, and TV are my soul food. They're better than uppers: inexpensive, relatively non-habit forming, and clear endorphin triggers (because you can't help but exercise the next day when you realize you've just consumed an entire day's calories in thirty minutes on the couch).
Had someone asked me to go do something fun last night, I probably would've jumped on the invitation instantaneously. But being home afforded me the quiet opportunity to simply be after a week of go go go. It also gave me the opportunity to finally spend time with my roommate, who I haven't seen in like a week, thanks to weird hours on her part and early nights on mine. (We talked about boys, duh.)
Our principal is always getting up in front of the school at morning meeting and telling us we should be thinking about what we're grateful for. This morning, I awoke (in my own room again!) grateful for a home, grateful for friends, and most decidely, grateful for the weekend.
In 2008, I participated in a teacher development program called SMILE through Tulane University. We took multiple weeks of math and science related classes at the University, and then we went on a couple of field trips throughout the year. While the classes were fairly engaging and informative (though poorly differentiated), the field trips were mostly a waste of time. I only went to the first one, at the end of the first quarter, and I spent all of my down time grading quarterlies. I graded in Subway. I graded in my hotel room. I graded on the bus. I spent most of the remainder of my non-grading time wishing I was grading tests or relaxing at home instead of walking around a large science complex on the Northshore that was way too complicated to have anything to do with my students. Keep in mind, I also had the added stress of being the one-eyed king of the classroom (read: first year of teaching), and of having recently suffered a week-long evacuation for Hurricane Gustav (which I also spent grading and wishing I was home).
A few months later, there was a second field trip for the program. I begrudgingly made plans to go and procured a substitute for the occasion, but I ended up opting out for health reasons. Well, I thought they were health reasons. I mean, I felt like I was coming down with something. But the morning of, I awoke feeling as good as new, and instead, passed the entire day drinking soda, devouring delivery pizza, and finishing off a half-gallon of ice cream and the entire first two seasons of Chuck on DVD. My mom called at one point to see how I was doing, and I replied excitedly, "Why did no one tell me playing hooky was so much fun?"
Forget fried chicken. Pizza, ice cream, and TV are my soul food. They're better than uppers: inexpensive, relatively non-habit forming, and clear endorphin triggers (because you can't help but exercise the next day when you realize you've just consumed an entire day's calories in thirty minutes on the couch).
Had someone asked me to go do something fun last night, I probably would've jumped on the invitation instantaneously. But being home afforded me the quiet opportunity to simply be after a week of go go go. It also gave me the opportunity to finally spend time with my roommate, who I haven't seen in like a week, thanks to weird hours on her part and early nights on mine. (We talked about boys, duh.)
Our principal is always getting up in front of the school at morning meeting and telling us we should be thinking about what we're grateful for. This morning, I awoke (in my own room again!) grateful for a home, grateful for friends, and most decidely, grateful for the weekend.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
With Friends Like These
It's amazing how just when the world seems darkest, just when the sky seems to pull a Chicken Little, just when your landlady kicks you out of your room and calls it an "inconvenience," that's when you realize just how lucky you are.
I have some really amazing friends. Every time I lean into the wind, they encourage and support me. They know me well enough to tread lightly with questions when I'm quiet, to know just what to say to help me through, to distract me with compliments, and to leave candy on my doorstep.
 |
| I have already eaten all of the Reese's Pieces. I got home 30 minutes ago. |
And yet, they haven't shut me out.
People that I have known for ages, and people that I have known for less than a year checked in with me today. They made me laugh (thanks, Mick), they made me cry (thanks, Chris), and I began to feel, above all else, strong.
Monday night, I ate dinner at my parents' house. My mom made manicotti with spinach, and my teenage brother was appalled that she'd ruined an otherwise deliciously meat- and carb-heavy meal with vegetables. He's been working out and trying to build muscle, so we all jumped on him about the ridiculousness of his complaint.
"I just need proteins," he said.
"Protein," I said.
"Proteins," he repeated.
"What is this? Biology? Why are you making protein plural?" I said.
"I'm strong to the finish 'cause I eats me spinach," my dad said, and gave a laugh like Popeye.
Friends, you are my spinach. You build me up, you make me strong, and you help me when bearded men try to steal my olive oil ('cause that shit ain't cheap). I am thankful every day for your presence in my life.
I'll end with a quote that a friend from college sent to me this morning. It was the first thing I saw when I woke up, and I've read it over and over again since. Nikola, this got me through the day. Thank you.
Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying,
"I will try again tomorrow."
-Mary Anne Radmacher
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Rebekah and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
As if it wasn't bad enough that Fuds had to end. The last 24 hours have been a proverbial bird-flipping from the universe. I don't know what I did to incite this kind of karma, but it must've been bad.
I wasn't exaggerating when I said that coming home from Florida was hard. I had a great time, and between fun-withdrawal and sleep-deprivation, I was feeling pretty low Sunday morning on the drive back home. Then I realized that I forgot my pillow in the condo. Then I got the call from my landlady to move everything in my room out by the morning. Then I got home to a sink of dirty dishes, a load of laundry, an almost-empty fridge, and a feel of being completely overwhelmed and defeated. I'm not going to lie to you; I cried last night. I cried on my parents' couch, in front of my family, somewhere between a story about Sarah's engagement and my mom's gracious and unexpected gifting of a binding machine I borrow sometimes for my classroom. I left shortly after dinner. I just wanted to go home and cry in my room. And then I remembered that I wouldn't have a room this week. Instead, I had to go home and move furniture.
I moved everything, and then sat in the living room for a minute, checking Facebook. My sub from the day had sent me a message about how a kid wet herself in my classroom and how the class didn't get much done that day. Then she asked to be my Facebook friend. And I deleted her request, unwilling to play friend to someone I don't really know, before brushing my teeth and getting into bed. I fell asleep slowly in an island of a bed, in a room that didn't look much like mine anymore.
The morning was slow-moving, and I arrived at school later than I wanted to a stack of ungraded papers; my college helper had only gotten through one class out of six. My inbox was full of emails. My box in the office was full of paperwork. My desk was messy. I realized that I hadn't copied anything for my fourth grade class yet for the day. I realized that I needed to fill out logs for students in my homeroom class. I remembered that after I finished grading everything, I had to record how many students missed every question on the exam. That's 150 students times 30+ questions. My to-do list began to feel like a pillow pressed to the face, slowly asphyxiating me with its ever-increasing workload.
I got done what I could do, and I made it out to morning meeting before the end of the pledge (read: late). One of my students was absent (meaning more work for me), and another forgot her backpack (meaning more work for me). When we got upstairs, a student said to me, "Oh, I thought that our sub was going to be here today." I replied, "Ouch. Are you that disappointed to see me?" I instantly felt bad. She just needed to give something back to the sub. Her comment had nothing to do with me, but I'd passed on a piece of my dark cloud to her anyway. Guilt set in.
My planning period was a wash. I received a flurry of emails from my realtor, loan officer, and an elevation/shoring contractor about estimates. I spent half of the hour leaving voicemails with roofers who never called me back, and the other half hour marking numerous fifth grade tests with Cs, Ds, and Fs (in other words, inviting parents to send me angry emails). My coworker tried to reassure me at lunch. "It'll all work out," she said. I may have grunted ungratefully. She was right, I'd get it done; I always do. But it felt (feels) so far from possible.
There was a section of time today that was not so terrible, horrible, very bad. The kids were really good for me today, for the most part, and my homeroom even took care of themselves enough to allow me to do a little grading as they worked on a research activity. I also had the foresight to cancel my normal Tuesday afternoon tutoring hour, so I was able to get more grading done in the hour after dismissal. Three classes graded and recorded, three to go.
I rushed out of school at 4:40 in order to get back home in time to change and get to volleyball before the doubles tournament began at 5. I walked into the house, walked up to my bedroom door, opened it, and proceeded to shout incoherently. This is what my room looks like today:
Both of my closets are taped up. My bed was moved in front of my dresser in the back room, despite the fact that my landlady told me it could stay in the room. I had to move both the mattress and the box spring off the dresser just to get to the shorts, sports bra, t-shirt, and socks, and I had to force open a closet door to get my shoes. I had to change in the bathroom. They'd taken down the fan. They'd taken down the curtains. Everything was taped and covered. This looked like it would take days, if not a week. The thought made me angry, and it made me want to cry, but I had nowhere private in the whole of my house to be sad.
I made it to volleyball only a few minutes late, but I had a hard time getting focused and feeling motivated to move and be aggressive. I felt bad that I wasn't playing up to par for my partner. We ended up losing in the finals 11-8. More guilt.
I shared my frustrations with some friends, who offered their support (and complimented my eyebrows...hey-o!), and then I remembered that I still needed to go to the grocery store. Commence more cursing and a side trip to the store.
After putting away the small number of groceries that I hope will last me until the weekend, I called my landlady. Her son picks up and tells me that she's gone off to her "little sewing circle" and should be back later tonight. I asked if he knew anything about the timeline on the room. "I think they said it shouldn't be later than Friday," he ventured. You think they would've called to tell me this sometime today, considering that I left a note on my bed this morning asking for information. Of course, I was pretty pissed last night when she and her sons came over to move my dresser and another piece of furniture out of the room. So maybe they're scared to tell me. They should be. I'm f***ing pissed.
And really, really overwhelmed and sad.
I don't know what to say or do. It's a collision of too many things all at once. It's draining me. And I have no place to recharge. God help me get through this week.
I wasn't exaggerating when I said that coming home from Florida was hard. I had a great time, and between fun-withdrawal and sleep-deprivation, I was feeling pretty low Sunday morning on the drive back home. Then I realized that I forgot my pillow in the condo. Then I got the call from my landlady to move everything in my room out by the morning. Then I got home to a sink of dirty dishes, a load of laundry, an almost-empty fridge, and a feel of being completely overwhelmed and defeated. I'm not going to lie to you; I cried last night. I cried on my parents' couch, in front of my family, somewhere between a story about Sarah's engagement and my mom's gracious and unexpected gifting of a binding machine I borrow sometimes for my classroom. I left shortly after dinner. I just wanted to go home and cry in my room. And then I remembered that I wouldn't have a room this week. Instead, I had to go home and move furniture.
I moved everything, and then sat in the living room for a minute, checking Facebook. My sub from the day had sent me a message about how a kid wet herself in my classroom and how the class didn't get much done that day. Then she asked to be my Facebook friend. And I deleted her request, unwilling to play friend to someone I don't really know, before brushing my teeth and getting into bed. I fell asleep slowly in an island of a bed, in a room that didn't look much like mine anymore.
The morning was slow-moving, and I arrived at school later than I wanted to a stack of ungraded papers; my college helper had only gotten through one class out of six. My inbox was full of emails. My box in the office was full of paperwork. My desk was messy. I realized that I hadn't copied anything for my fourth grade class yet for the day. I realized that I needed to fill out logs for students in my homeroom class. I remembered that after I finished grading everything, I had to record how many students missed every question on the exam. That's 150 students times 30+ questions. My to-do list began to feel like a pillow pressed to the face, slowly asphyxiating me with its ever-increasing workload.
I got done what I could do, and I made it out to morning meeting before the end of the pledge (read: late). One of my students was absent (meaning more work for me), and another forgot her backpack (meaning more work for me). When we got upstairs, a student said to me, "Oh, I thought that our sub was going to be here today." I replied, "Ouch. Are you that disappointed to see me?" I instantly felt bad. She just needed to give something back to the sub. Her comment had nothing to do with me, but I'd passed on a piece of my dark cloud to her anyway. Guilt set in.
My planning period was a wash. I received a flurry of emails from my realtor, loan officer, and an elevation/shoring contractor about estimates. I spent half of the hour leaving voicemails with roofers who never called me back, and the other half hour marking numerous fifth grade tests with Cs, Ds, and Fs (in other words, inviting parents to send me angry emails). My coworker tried to reassure me at lunch. "It'll all work out," she said. I may have grunted ungratefully. She was right, I'd get it done; I always do. But it felt (feels) so far from possible.
There was a section of time today that was not so terrible, horrible, very bad. The kids were really good for me today, for the most part, and my homeroom even took care of themselves enough to allow me to do a little grading as they worked on a research activity. I also had the foresight to cancel my normal Tuesday afternoon tutoring hour, so I was able to get more grading done in the hour after dismissal. Three classes graded and recorded, three to go.
I rushed out of school at 4:40 in order to get back home in time to change and get to volleyball before the doubles tournament began at 5. I walked into the house, walked up to my bedroom door, opened it, and proceeded to shout incoherently. This is what my room looks like today:
Both of my closets are taped up. My bed was moved in front of my dresser in the back room, despite the fact that my landlady told me it could stay in the room. I had to move both the mattress and the box spring off the dresser just to get to the shorts, sports bra, t-shirt, and socks, and I had to force open a closet door to get my shoes. I had to change in the bathroom. They'd taken down the fan. They'd taken down the curtains. Everything was taped and covered. This looked like it would take days, if not a week. The thought made me angry, and it made me want to cry, but I had nowhere private in the whole of my house to be sad.
I made it to volleyball only a few minutes late, but I had a hard time getting focused and feeling motivated to move and be aggressive. I felt bad that I wasn't playing up to par for my partner. We ended up losing in the finals 11-8. More guilt.
I shared my frustrations with some friends, who offered their support (and complimented my eyebrows...hey-o!), and then I remembered that I still needed to go to the grocery store. Commence more cursing and a side trip to the store.
After putting away the small number of groceries that I hope will last me until the weekend, I called my landlady. Her son picks up and tells me that she's gone off to her "little sewing circle" and should be back later tonight. I asked if he knew anything about the timeline on the room. "I think they said it shouldn't be later than Friday," he ventured. You think they would've called to tell me this sometime today, considering that I left a note on my bed this morning asking for information. Of course, I was pretty pissed last night when she and her sons came over to move my dresser and another piece of furniture out of the room. So maybe they're scared to tell me. They should be. I'm f***ing pissed.
And really, really overwhelmed and sad.
I don't know what to say or do. It's a collision of too many things all at once. It's draining me. And I have no place to recharge. God help me get through this week.
Monday, October 6, 2014
FUDS
Coming home from vacation is hard. It doesn't help when you remember you forgot your favorite pillow two hours after leaving the beach. Nor does it help when you're on the last leg of your drive, and your landlady calls to tell you that you need to move everything out of your room by morning so that she can redo the entire ceiling in your bedroom. "You may need to sleep on the couch for a couple of nights," she told me at one point. That sentence still echoes in my brain as I write this.
The weekend started exceptionally well. I took Friday off, and we started the drive in the late morning, arriving in time to play a little volleyball before getting ready for the first night's party. The weather was perfect, and the Weather Channel promised continued perfection throughout the weekend. It was just cool enough that the mornings and evenings required sleeves, and warm enough to wear just a bathing suit during the day. On top of everything, not a single person called me pale at any point during the entire weekend. This is a beach first for me, and I'd like to give credit where credit is due. Jergens Natural Glow, you came through for me, and I appreciate it. Friends, thanks for being nice.
Friday night was the first party, a pre-party of sorts. There is drinking and dancing, but it's a smaller crowd and there's less raging. We ran into lots of the people we knew from New Orleans, and each person's face glowed with a combination of excitement and relief. "So glad I'm finally here," someone said. We all nodded. After whiling away a few hours on the dance floor, we finally got home and crashed around 1:30am.
Saturday morning started early: 9am. Bracing against the cool morning wind, we ventured the long walk to the ocean and set up shop along the quarter-mile expanse of volleyball courts temporarily stationed along the beach for the weekend. I didn't play in the tournament, so I spent the day bouncing back and forth between a co-ed net with people from my room, a men's net with people from our other room, and another men's net with friends from our grass volleyball group.
When I ran into people I knew along the route between these three nets, they would ask "How are y'all doing?" When I would proceed to tell them about the game-status of the three nets, they would remember that I myself wasn't playing, and I'd have to explain why. Why, you may also ask, didn't I play, after all this talk of improvement in the sport? Well, I was lazy. I didn't really try to put a team together, and when team were being put together (months ago), I wasn't really any good. So no one asked me to join them. I didn't say all that, though. I mostly stuck to the story, "I was on a team, and it fell apart." True, though selectively so.
Of course, the best part about not playing is the watching. In addition to the three nets I bounced between, I also spent a good chunk of time in front of the women's main Open net, watching them battle for a higher seed in playoffs, which would be the next day. Watching Open is always inspiring. I imagine it's similar to the way little boys feel when they watch pro football games. I want to do that when I grow up. The truth is, I'm pretty far from it. But my coach seems to think I can get there, and I want it, so who knows? Maybe in a couple of years, I'll get there.
For the last two trips to Fuds, Saturday night has been the climax of the weekend. We all get dressed up. We all walk to the party. We all drink too much. We all dance for hours. We all get home later than we probably should, especially considering the important games the following day.
In April, I spent Saturday night dancing with a host of different men, eventually locking lips with one particularly tall and handsome gentleman from Atlanta who I never saw again. While the almost-guaranteed anonymity of only knowing his first name and current city proved to be a pleasant situation, part of me wondered what it would have been like, had I seen him again or had we spent more time talking. This time around, I suppose I got my answer. I danced with one guy in particular for most of the night, someone who I didn't know well before the weekend but who I knew I'd see the next morning. "Will this be awkward tomorrow?" I asked. He shrugged.
The answer is, it was a little awkward. Not obviously so. While many of our friends witnessed the events of the night, no one uttered a word about it. No one else made it awkward. In truth, it was only awkward in my head. I didn't know how to deal with it. To make matters worse, I thought that I might actually have liked him a little, but in my experience, what happens on a Saturday night at Fuds is like time in Vegas. What happens stays.
So I acted cool. The first time I saw him Sunday morning, I gave a little wave and proceeded to treat him exactly the same way I had the day before. I didn't know what else to do. Ask him out? Make a joke about it? Make out with him again?
As Sunday morning rolled into Sunday afternoon, the mental awkwardness continued. We talked a little at points, but we never really mentioned what happened the night before on the dance floor. In truth, I don't even know if he remembered what happened the night before. Did I mention that there was a lot of drinking?
There were plenty of things to distract me on Sunday, though. Every one of our three teams won their first game. One got to the quarter finals, and another team won second place in their division. We ended the day with a good seat for the Open finals, playing pick up between matches. I got sunburned, but I left the beach mostly content.
Sunday night was chill. Some people had left already, but those that were left hung out in the hot tub. We ate gumbo at a restaurant next door to our condo. We went up to one of the condos and drank and talked until midnight. We went to sleep earlier than any other night.
I woke up Sunday morning with apprehension. It was time to go home, and I wasn't ready to leave the bubble of happiness and freedom that is Fuds. As I carried my luggage downstairs to the car, I thought about how great it would be if the tournament happened more often, but then again, maybe six months is just infrequent enough to keep the excitement. If it happened every weekend, it wouldn't be so fun. Also, I would be broke and sleep-deprived beyond reason.
The drive home was a quiet one, and getting home, I put all my things in my room and laid on the bed. I felt exactly the same way I did every summer in college, right after coming home: depressed and in a terrible mood. I missed my friends. I missed the fun. I missed the freedom.
I return to New Orleans with an adult-sized weight on my shoulders and enough insecurities to rival a high school girl. I'm buying a house. There's a hole in my bedroom ceiling. My younger sister just got engaged. I'm dreading the return to work. I need to do laundry, I need to go grocery shopping, and I need to unpack, but all I want to do is go back to Florida; I just want to lay under the stars on a cool evening with an attractive man one more time, worrying only about the goosebumps on my arms and the amount of sand in my hair. But I can't. For better or for worse, Fuds isn't real life. It is a short but sweet departure from reality, and in my case, a much needed one.
I don't know what the next couple of months hold for me. More worries, more adult things, if I had to guess. But I can confidently say, I will be back in Fort Walton Beach in April. Fuds, I'm already counting down the days until I see you again.
The weekend started exceptionally well. I took Friday off, and we started the drive in the late morning, arriving in time to play a little volleyball before getting ready for the first night's party. The weather was perfect, and the Weather Channel promised continued perfection throughout the weekend. It was just cool enough that the mornings and evenings required sleeves, and warm enough to wear just a bathing suit during the day. On top of everything, not a single person called me pale at any point during the entire weekend. This is a beach first for me, and I'd like to give credit where credit is due. Jergens Natural Glow, you came through for me, and I appreciate it. Friends, thanks for being nice.
Friday night was the first party, a pre-party of sorts. There is drinking and dancing, but it's a smaller crowd and there's less raging. We ran into lots of the people we knew from New Orleans, and each person's face glowed with a combination of excitement and relief. "So glad I'm finally here," someone said. We all nodded. After whiling away a few hours on the dance floor, we finally got home and crashed around 1:30am.
Saturday morning started early: 9am. Bracing against the cool morning wind, we ventured the long walk to the ocean and set up shop along the quarter-mile expanse of volleyball courts temporarily stationed along the beach for the weekend. I didn't play in the tournament, so I spent the day bouncing back and forth between a co-ed net with people from my room, a men's net with people from our other room, and another men's net with friends from our grass volleyball group.
When I ran into people I knew along the route between these three nets, they would ask "How are y'all doing?" When I would proceed to tell them about the game-status of the three nets, they would remember that I myself wasn't playing, and I'd have to explain why. Why, you may also ask, didn't I play, after all this talk of improvement in the sport? Well, I was lazy. I didn't really try to put a team together, and when team were being put together (months ago), I wasn't really any good. So no one asked me to join them. I didn't say all that, though. I mostly stuck to the story, "I was on a team, and it fell apart." True, though selectively so.
Of course, the best part about not playing is the watching. In addition to the three nets I bounced between, I also spent a good chunk of time in front of the women's main Open net, watching them battle for a higher seed in playoffs, which would be the next day. Watching Open is always inspiring. I imagine it's similar to the way little boys feel when they watch pro football games. I want to do that when I grow up. The truth is, I'm pretty far from it. But my coach seems to think I can get there, and I want it, so who knows? Maybe in a couple of years, I'll get there.
For the last two trips to Fuds, Saturday night has been the climax of the weekend. We all get dressed up. We all walk to the party. We all drink too much. We all dance for hours. We all get home later than we probably should, especially considering the important games the following day.
In April, I spent Saturday night dancing with a host of different men, eventually locking lips with one particularly tall and handsome gentleman from Atlanta who I never saw again. While the almost-guaranteed anonymity of only knowing his first name and current city proved to be a pleasant situation, part of me wondered what it would have been like, had I seen him again or had we spent more time talking. This time around, I suppose I got my answer. I danced with one guy in particular for most of the night, someone who I didn't know well before the weekend but who I knew I'd see the next morning. "Will this be awkward tomorrow?" I asked. He shrugged.
The answer is, it was a little awkward. Not obviously so. While many of our friends witnessed the events of the night, no one uttered a word about it. No one else made it awkward. In truth, it was only awkward in my head. I didn't know how to deal with it. To make matters worse, I thought that I might actually have liked him a little, but in my experience, what happens on a Saturday night at Fuds is like time in Vegas. What happens stays.
So I acted cool. The first time I saw him Sunday morning, I gave a little wave and proceeded to treat him exactly the same way I had the day before. I didn't know what else to do. Ask him out? Make a joke about it? Make out with him again?
As Sunday morning rolled into Sunday afternoon, the mental awkwardness continued. We talked a little at points, but we never really mentioned what happened the night before on the dance floor. In truth, I don't even know if he remembered what happened the night before. Did I mention that there was a lot of drinking?
There were plenty of things to distract me on Sunday, though. Every one of our three teams won their first game. One got to the quarter finals, and another team won second place in their division. We ended the day with a good seat for the Open finals, playing pick up between matches. I got sunburned, but I left the beach mostly content.
Sunday night was chill. Some people had left already, but those that were left hung out in the hot tub. We ate gumbo at a restaurant next door to our condo. We went up to one of the condos and drank and talked until midnight. We went to sleep earlier than any other night.
I woke up Sunday morning with apprehension. It was time to go home, and I wasn't ready to leave the bubble of happiness and freedom that is Fuds. As I carried my luggage downstairs to the car, I thought about how great it would be if the tournament happened more often, but then again, maybe six months is just infrequent enough to keep the excitement. If it happened every weekend, it wouldn't be so fun. Also, I would be broke and sleep-deprived beyond reason.
The drive home was a quiet one, and getting home, I put all my things in my room and laid on the bed. I felt exactly the same way I did every summer in college, right after coming home: depressed and in a terrible mood. I missed my friends. I missed the fun. I missed the freedom.
I return to New Orleans with an adult-sized weight on my shoulders and enough insecurities to rival a high school girl. I'm buying a house. There's a hole in my bedroom ceiling. My younger sister just got engaged. I'm dreading the return to work. I need to do laundry, I need to go grocery shopping, and I need to unpack, but all I want to do is go back to Florida; I just want to lay under the stars on a cool evening with an attractive man one more time, worrying only about the goosebumps on my arms and the amount of sand in my hair. But I can't. For better or for worse, Fuds isn't real life. It is a short but sweet departure from reality, and in my case, a much needed one.
I don't know what the next couple of months hold for me. More worries, more adult things, if I had to guess. But I can confidently say, I will be back in Fort Walton Beach in April. Fuds, I'm already counting down the days until I see you again.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Being the Nucleus
[Student 1 karate kicks in the air while waiting in line after recess]
Student 2: Stop it! You're gonna kick me!
Student 1: I don't have to listen to you!
Me: Stop. I need you to get yourself settled and out of recess mode. And you do have to listen to me.
Student 3: Because she's the nucleus! Boom!
Me: What he said. I'm the boss.
Science metaphors on the recess yard? My job is done here.
This week has been ridiculous. I've been working 11+ hour days for the last week to prepare sub plans, to grade everything I can in anticipation of grades being due shortly after I return, and to get things copied and planned early so that I don't return to a shitstorm of work next Tuesday. Because there is nothing worse than returning from vacation only to suffocate beneath mountains of ungraded exams and papers that have not yet been copied.
Surprisingly, all of this time at work has actually been highly efficient. Normally, I procrastinate grading at all costs and do everything else instead until I literally can't wait any longer, but I didn't this week. I suppose that in work-heavy situations, I kick into hyperdrive. Here are the paper piles I left for the sub.
Simultaneously, I have been grappling with the decision to buy or walk away from this house into which I've been investing time, money, and emotion over the last 3-4 weeks. After multiple conversations with multiple people, including daily chats with the realtor and a thirty minute conversation with my parents yesterday, I have decided to buy the house. It may be a little bit of a money suck at the beginning, but I think that in the long run, I'll end up saving money by buying, especially since I expect the house to significantly increase in value between the turning of the neighborhood and the renovations being completed. There are still four more weeks before I close, but that's okay because I will need the four weeks to get the house appraised, line up bids and contractors, fill out loan paperwork, move around funds, and generally acclimate myself to the idea of being significantly less financially liquid.
I also have to remind myself that there's plenty of things that could go wrong between now and Halloween, and between Halloween and some unknown time in the future when I sell this house. Because while I may be the boss of my class, and on top of my work, being a homeowner (it seems) is really a game of "When will the next thing stop working?" Murphy's Law is the nucleus. I'm just a measly protein, a small piece of the puzzle.
Unsurprisingly, I suppose, I kind of wanted to write about all of this, even though I don't technically have to according to the nonexistent bylaws of the 30 in 30 challenge. I guess it helps me process. Maybe it's not the end of the blog as we know it?
Student 2: Stop it! You're gonna kick me!
Student 1: I don't have to listen to you!
Me: Stop. I need you to get yourself settled and out of recess mode. And you do have to listen to me.
Student 3: Because she's the nucleus! Boom!
Me: What he said. I'm the boss.
Science metaphors on the recess yard? My job is done here.
This week has been ridiculous. I've been working 11+ hour days for the last week to prepare sub plans, to grade everything I can in anticipation of grades being due shortly after I return, and to get things copied and planned early so that I don't return to a shitstorm of work next Tuesday. Because there is nothing worse than returning from vacation only to suffocate beneath mountains of ungraded exams and papers that have not yet been copied.
Surprisingly, all of this time at work has actually been highly efficient. Normally, I procrastinate grading at all costs and do everything else instead until I literally can't wait any longer, but I didn't this week. I suppose that in work-heavy situations, I kick into hyperdrive. Here are the paper piles I left for the sub.
 |
| I'm Type A. Case in Point. |
Simultaneously, I have been grappling with the decision to buy or walk away from this house into which I've been investing time, money, and emotion over the last 3-4 weeks. After multiple conversations with multiple people, including daily chats with the realtor and a thirty minute conversation with my parents yesterday, I have decided to buy the house. It may be a little bit of a money suck at the beginning, but I think that in the long run, I'll end up saving money by buying, especially since I expect the house to significantly increase in value between the turning of the neighborhood and the renovations being completed. There are still four more weeks before I close, but that's okay because I will need the four weeks to get the house appraised, line up bids and contractors, fill out loan paperwork, move around funds, and generally acclimate myself to the idea of being significantly less financially liquid.
I also have to remind myself that there's plenty of things that could go wrong between now and Halloween, and between Halloween and some unknown time in the future when I sell this house. Because while I may be the boss of my class, and on top of my work, being a homeowner (it seems) is really a game of "When will the next thing stop working?" Murphy's Law is the nucleus. I'm just a measly protein, a small piece of the puzzle.
Unsurprisingly, I suppose, I kind of wanted to write about all of this, even though I don't technically have to according to the nonexistent bylaws of the 30 in 30 challenge. I guess it helps me process. Maybe it's not the end of the blog as we know it?
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